Hide Inside The Fruit-Bowl
by MadameMorganLeFay
Summary: Carrying on an illicit love affair was frustrating, but Arthur and Guinevere kept trying because they were mad like that... One-Shot.


**The precarious love affair of Arthur and Guinevere.**

* * *

**Hide Inside The Fruit-Bowl**

**~ooooOOOOoooo~**

**"I Am Not Moaning, I Am Just Dejected!"**

When would he next see her again?

Being kept on tenterhooks over this elusive possibility was cruel; he didn't deserve it. Nobody else had to follow an absurd regime during the arduous process of having a clandestine love affair- and even if they did, it was probably easier to configure opportune times to meet, and not ludicrous scenario's as he did. So it simply wasn't fair, but there was precious little he could do about it, except sit alone in his chambers, avidly reliving every single waking moment that he had spent in her presence.

There weren't many to recall, which kept such sessions of lovesick moping short and sweet- but then there was the endless philosophy, and these internal mental lectures to self could go on... all of the year, two months, seven days, five hours and approximately thirty-seven minutes that the coroner had declared him to be in love. In addition to the murmuring that went on in his mind, there were the dreams that would have him sat up in bed abruptly as though he had had a nightmare, mortified, and vowing never to speak of them again. His speech was prone to tripping and stumbling and sometimes he just really needed a swig of wine for a burst of confidence that he was supposed to have already.

If magic wasn't illegal, he would have gone back in time and strangled, hung, drawn and quartered whoever separated Princes and servants.

* * *

She thought pretty much the same thing when she was not rushing up and down the Castle, doing everything and anything for any half lazy noble who had a clue. Where and how to see him. What to say- or not, as the case may be. What to wear. How to greet him. Whether to kiss him- on and on she deliberated, cursed and re-planned. Usually, she would be simultaneously relieved and disappointed when going for weeks on end without getting to even speak to him. So when his fingers would brush hers at dinner, the rush of exhilaration the clandestine contact produced was melodramatic. Still contact was contact; stares were stares, smiles were smiles. She wasn't satisfied- and neither was he, if Merlin was to be believed, but no one had to know that.

When feeling particularly bold, she would wander close to the training field; the easiest place to find him on any good day. It was a furtive method of seeing him... without actually_ seeing_ him per se. She would have preferred that he never found out, even though she missed him every hour that they were separated, could not speak a word. Anyhow, she hated to appear compromised, in mooning over a Knight in shining armour; it was far too clichéd, plus she was far above such childish activities... Which was why she did just that every day. Ah well- hypocrisy was only hypocrisy when others found out. And her beautiful Prince would never find out.

So yesterday, she was ostensibly walking past the field, completely uninterested in Arthur effortlessly putting those overly-hopeful, pompous new recruits in their place. Of course she wasn't admiring immaculate silver arcs, fiery gold clashing against the sun and the burning concentration in his cerulean eyes. All went completely unnoticed, which was she subsequently sat down on a mound of grass and rested her head in her hands, gazing at him in a mixture of curiosity, admiration and amusement. His ego was enough to force the citizens of Camelot into exile, but he really was too good- it was almost boring. Perhaps he should have been banned from competing in the tourné's in order to give the hilariously incompetent likes of Sir Gildrid and his ilk a fighting chance... or her. She wasn't half bad with a sword, though most likely no one would ever know...

During a break, his eyes lit up when he caught sight of her and before she could scramble to her feet and sprint off, he was standing in front of her, an obvious question on his face.

"Two days ago, you claimed that you would not indulge my ego by watching my natural brilliance on the training field," he reminded her, laughter in his voice as he revelled in her embarrassment; "Clearly I am so good I have changed even your mind for the better." He was joking, but there was an undercurrent of pleasure in the mockery; he had secretly hoped Guinevere would take more of an interest in his past-times, to be more precise. "Now you are staring at me as though I were the most wonderful creation in the whole history of being- which I _am_, of course!"

"I was not staring at _you_," she hissed, "I was... looking in your direction," Of course, it only had to sound abjectly stupid as soon as she had finished saying it, and his amused scepticism proved it to be just so. "And for your information, Gildrid undisputedly had the upper hand over you at several points in that match!"

He only burst out laughing.

* * *

All he wanted to do was to be able to stand up and decide to find her, but even that pleasure was denied him. And today was not a good day; his father had yelled at him for being half asleep in the Court Room whilst the elusive "Dragoon The Great" mysteriously turned up once again demanding yet more nonsense, and escaping just as soon as the belated influx of guards managed to lay their hands on him. Embarrassed and angry, he had been sulking all afternoon, whilst he heard a happy melée of voices from his window; the ordinary people going about their utterly ordinary lives in an undeniably ordinary fashion. One minute he wanted to order them to shut up and allow him to wallow in self-pity until the end of his days, the next, he was staring down at them wistfully, wondering whether Guinevere would be amongst them. Of course she would, and having a much better time than he was, thanks to that horribly clichéd "out-for-revenge" sorcerer, Dragoon.

Stupid, white-haired, deranged specimen of arrogant insolence...

If he hadn't sprung up from the middle of nowhere, his father would not have yelled at him, and he could have spent a quiet hour demonstrating just how excited he was to be present at Court Assembly by fighting to stay awake. But no, that bumbling, doddering old man had to waddle inside, ruining the moment and those cowardly Courtiers had scurried away, leaving everything up to him- like always. In the aftermath of the travesty, it had finally occurred to Arthur that apart from sitting on his throne, hiking taxes and whining about magic, his father didn't really do shit. Of course, he wasn't going to mention it next time he saw the King, but it was worth bearing in mind.

Now all he wanted was Guinevere- but he couldn't have her. Damn it. Curse everything to hell.

* * *

It was during these hours that he would speculate on how he might "accidentally" run into her again- yesterday afternoon's idea was that he could have disguised himself as a rat-catcher, hence granting him easy access to her house. He had to renege on that idea when he remembered that she might not appreciate the decoy, or worse, might be actually scared. Plus he didn't know how to catch rats- that was what Merlin was for. So, no go. Today, he had a slightly better idea; he could pretend to be gravely ill and require only her assistance. Yes... come to think of it, that might just work... He drummed his fingers on the table, with a scheming grin plastered on his face.

Ill it was, then. What fever should he have? Sweating sickness? Rashes? Or just a common cough? Better play safe, and go for the tamest offender. Smiling, Arthur strode to the door to execute phase two of his plan:

"MERLIN!"

His unwilling co-conspirator made it to the Chambers within seconds of being called, which was a record, considering the mound of other duties he was responsible for.

"I feel-" Cough, cough, "Ill. Very ill. Fetch Guinevere."

"So... you aren't _actually_ ill?"

"No, but no one needs to know that. Now get her! Don't return without her- and I am to receive no one else."

Cough, cough, cough. Grin.

* * *

When Guinevere stepped cautiously inside the Prince's Chambers it was to find the man in question smiling whilst devouring the contents of the fruit bowl.

"I KNEW you weren't ill!" she exclaimed with an accusatory stare. "Why on earth would I be required for a _cough_?"

It was worth it, seeing his eyes light up at the sight of her, though. Any time spent with him was precious, seeing as they were afforded so little, and her stomach ached from repressing her feelings. Then there was the fact Merlin couldn't keep his mouth tapered shut or that ridiculous knowing grin from his features... Next time he cornered her, or made sarcastic jokes about her stressed denials, she would so strangle him into silence! Still, the babbling weasel had his uses; namely, this meeting. Very kind of him indeed, she admitted reluctantly. Damn it- why was he so supportive?!

"Yes, yes; I lied," he conceded casually, beckoning for her to shut to door. "Tragedy, travesty and all that." He paused, taking her in with adoring eyes that had finally located their quarry. She was elusive, but he would always have her in the end, whatever lengths he went to seek her out. So she didn't appreciate his cover story- very well. There would be more delightful things to enjoy later should she lose the disapproving frown on her face. As if she knew what he was thinking, the smallest of rebellious smiles tugged at the corner of her mouth... that wonderfully sensuous mouth that he so wanted to be locked around his... "I am not having a good day," he confessed without the previous impertinence. He was partially exploiting his show of a softer side he could not erase, but his motives were genuine, which was more than could be said for his cough.

She relented a little, and crossed over until she was standing across from him at the spotless dining table.

"I am sorry to hear that," she replied gently, sitting down, and taking his hands in her small ones. "Did Dragoon turn up again?"

"Yes- and don't even THINK of laughing!"

"Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha." She didn't find his misery amusing, but she did love to tease.

* * *

"You are too far away from me over there, you know."

She smiled back demurely, entwining her fingers with his tenderly. "I know. And I intend for it to stay that way."

"I wish you didn't." But she had a very good point; it was blindingly obvious that Uther should be kept in the dark about their affair, and right now, the last thing he needed was another lecture about yet another characteristic that he was sadly deficient in. Understanding the role and importance of class was no longer his forte- even where Merlin was concerned. It was all Guinevere's fault, and he was very glad that was the case- come on, everyone was the same; they all woke in the mornings, worked all day, slept at night. Everyone was flash, bones and blood; everyone laughed, loved, fought, got ill and died in the end. The only differentiating factor was the amount of gold- otherwise, what was the big deal? He didn't want to hear Uther's answer, so it was for the best that Guinevere remained in the right, at the other side of the table, ostensibly tending to the invalidated Prince.

"Maybe some other day, I could bridge the gap..."

She was quite surprising; her voice was slightly huskier and her eyes bored into his directly. It didn't often happen, but when it did, he was reminded of several things; the punishment in store for her, the diatribe in store for him, subsequent jokes from Merlin, and most of all, that she was without a trace of doubt, the very woman for him. Not even the threat of being cooked at the stake could erase that conclusion, or any other similarly inconvenient way of dying. As sienna eyes locked onto cerulean ones, perhaps they shared the same thought. He would hope so; she was quite conservative with divulging what she was thinking, hence his surprise at her being so forward all of a sudden. But it was encouraging, and when she did make her leap, it made her that much more... _beautiful_.

* * *

Come to think of it, it had been about a month ago when she last let go of the act, and lost herself in the moment...

He wondered what she had thought when he turned up at her small home unannounced- that he was making an effort at least? She hadn't seen him for three weeks straight, which had killed her, so even if his proposition was, once again, laughable, nothing could have made her happier than the two of them in her house that beautiful afternoon...

And Arthur was (allegedly) cooking. To be more precise, she was cooking and he was pretending to help and understand- and scoffing the ingredients before they even made it into the iron pot.

And stealing kisses from her when she tried to stop him; easily the most effective way to silence her stream of chatter about inconvenient things like cooperation, concentration- or lack thereof. Definitely lack thereof. Nevertheless, whether innocently or deliberately (most probably the latter), he couldn't stop touching her, which was highly distracting and meant that a simple meal of stew that would have taken no more than a quarter of an hour was transformed into an hour long pantomime. When he brushed her hair back from her face, she added too much thyme, and whilst pouring in more water to correct her mistake, he chose that moment to run his hand down her arm- and then she added too much water. Torn between smiling and tying his hands behind his back with the nearest shawl, she moved to the opposite side of the table, and proceeded to start again.

He followed, chuckling under his breath and whilst she was chopping carrots, he leaned over to "check how the stew was coming on" and she nearly chopped her finger off- or so she claimed. It wasn't as though she had leant closer to inhale his scent or anything...

"You're such a liar, Guinevere; there isn't even a cut or anything! Seriously, you-" His words were unceremoniously cut off when she relinquished her tenuous grip on self-restraint and pulled him towards her eager lips.

Both of them had the nerve to complain of hunger around fifteen minutes later.

* * *

Sadly, he couldn't have a cough every day, so when he reluctantly decided to drop the pretence, she no longer had an excuse to be inside his room, as Uther had told her sharply in no uncertain terms upon finding her and the Prince laughing over some mundane thing an hour later. The King had been predictably most unpleasant about the whole matter; castigating her perceived flirtatiousness and neglect of important duties. The threat of jail was thrown in as well for good measure, for Uther never did anything by halves. Arthur had interceded on her behalf, vying for clemency; of course, the naive boy received none.

"Out you go! And I do not wish to see you here again!"

She bowed hastily and rushed out, fighting her increasing frustration with "the ways things are." Such a cliché (again), but it was so true in her case. Why couldn't she visit Arthur whenever she wanted, regardless of anyone's feelings? Why couldn't she laugh with him, why couldn't she simply act as though there were no complex barriers between the two of them? Shooting a glare at his back, she slipped into the corridor, vaguely aware that she was voluntarily doing the walk of shame in front of the guards. Could her day get even better? She hoped Arthur would swear them to silence, else the King would be breathing down her neck once more, and having being once accused of sorcery, she had no desire to cross his path again.

As for Arthur; he'd felt melodramatic to the point of wishing to passionately kiss her goodbye in front of his father, but of course, this would be a horrifically short-sighted idea that would result in her punishment- the last thing he wanted. One of these days, he was going to have have to hide her whenever such interruptions occurred- maybe inside the fruit bowl. On second thoughts, the wardrobe might be more convenient, and less obvious- like their love. He would make a note to look into it. But for now, whilst torn up inside, he watched her leave with a small smile disguising a large crack in his heart. _Maybe next time,_ she had hinted; please let it be true... He desperately hoped that his pleas would not be left unanswered, if one good thing could come from this overall dismal day.

Because there was only ever sunshine when she was around.

**FINIS**

* * *

So, I wanted to have a satirical take on an illicit love affair? Did it work? Did you like- or just meh? Or hate, that is cool with me, too!


End file.
